Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. Read Online Free PDF Page A

“Your driver.” He made an elaborate, silly bow and grinned even wider as he picked up my bags and led me out into the damp, gloomy dusk of the parking lot.
    He stopped at a battered Mini Cooper.
    “Company limo,” he said with an ironic laugh as he stowed my bags in a trunk otherwise occupied by empty beer bottles and stacks of smutty books. It smelled of stale beer and cigarettes and unwashed socks. If I’d had the money to turn around and book a flight back to New York at that moment, I would have done it in a heartbeat.
    “Hop in the car,” Liam said, his dreadlocks glowing a bloody red in the parking lot light.
    I stood beside the car door, frozen. He wasn’t even going to open the door for me. I had just flown half way around the world to live with a gang of low-life pornographers. And I had no choice but to do whatever he told me.

Chapter 8—Fairy Tale Villages and Mutant Zombies
     
    Liam stood behind me, beside the car, looking puzzled.
    “You fancy doing the driving? I don’t mind, but I thought you’d be knackered after your flight.”
    Of course, the English drove on the other side of the road. I should have remembered. I’d been about to climb into the driver’s seat.
    “I always drive because I’m the only one what’s got a valid driving license,” he said. “But your American license is good here…”
    “I’m just—confused. Sorry.”
    We switched sides, and he did open the door for me after all, with rather an elegant flourish. But as I sat down, I remembered I didn’t actually have a valid American license. It had been up for renewal when I was in the middle of the mess with the foreclosure. I hadn’t owned a car since I’d moved to Manhattan after the divorce, so it hadn’t been an issue. I looked in my wallet. There it was—along with the picture of Jonathan I somehow hadn’t been able to part with—my New York driver’s license, expiration date: last November.
    Liam didn’t offer conversation—or any further information on the “rough evening.” He turned on the car radio and listened with intensity to a sports event, occasionally exploding with anger, or cheering when somebody made a wicket or whatever. I was burning with questions on everything from the whereabouts of Mr. Sherwood to what accommodations to expect, but Liam told me nothing. All I could figure out from the loud radio was that we were listening to something soccerish played by teams from Leeds and Manchester.
    We passed through misty fairy-tale villages with cobbled streets and half-timbered pubs, but they didn’t do much to allay my fears.
    At one point, Liam got a call on his cell. His face went tense.
    “She’s here,” he said. “All sorted.”
    But when he clicked off, he turned the radio even louder, which did not make me feel “sorted” in any way.
    I told myself I shouldn’t have expected Peter Sherwood to meet me in person. He had more important authors to entertain, like Gordon Trask.
    Liam slowed in front of a large, featureless red-brick building surrounded by an iron fence. He drove the Mini through an open gate and down a driveway scattered with bottles, wrappers, and drifting plastic bags—not exactly the quaint spot I had pictured.
    He parked next to an ancient van and put an arm around my shoulders, his tone secretive.
    “We’ve got a bit of a dodgy situation inside. If anyone asks, you don’t know Peter Sherwood. You’re with me. Look after yourself and stay out of the way.”
    He got out and opened the car door for me.
    I wanted to scream, maybe jump behind the wheel and drive back to the airport—anything but step out into the rainy night. I started to ask the obvious questions, but Liam silenced me with a shake of his head.
    “Don’t say owt to nark this bloke. He’s a right loon.” Although his speech was incomprehensible, Liam’s body language made it clear something was very wrong inside.
    I hesitated a moment longer, but the rain, heavier now, was soaking his